Wild Horses
by devilherdue
Summary: The backstory of Champion Eris Lichbane: Wyvern-Riding, Dragon-Slaying, Hero of Highpoint. The making of a girl into a warrior, by less-than-conventional measures.
1. The Calm Before

**Author's Note:** This is a backstory written for a character I play in an original campaign world (one which I have the joy of experiencing, but can claim no credit in creating). The system is modified off of 2nd Edition Dungeons and Dragons.

The main character, Anna Eris'ei, or Eris, is currently a Level 10 Fighter, Level 1 Champion (Prestige). She's a Chaotic-Neutral, dual-wielding, fearless warrior. Stats, for anyone who's interested in that sort of thing, are: 18 / 18 / 20 / 9 / 11 / 18. Basically, she can put a lot of hurting on things.

This starts off roughly two years before she joined the adventuring party that became the party she's with now.

**Rating** is for violence, language, and sexual themes (though generally no overly explicit sexual content).

* * *

Chapter One  
**THE CALM BEFORE**

_"Four things greater than all things are,  
Women and Horses and Power and War__."  
_- Rudyard Kipling; The Ballad of the King's Jest

* * *

* * * * *

* * *

**Cecily Eris'ei**  
Mother of Two, Horse Rancher's Widow, Innocent Bystander

* * *

Cecily Eris'ei paused by one of the ranch house's windows. Setting down the hoof-picks and spare horseshoes she'd just washed, the widow smiled as she looked across her grounds. In the distance, Alain and Anna were busy training: or at least, Alain was training. Anna, on the other hand, was giving her brother hell and a half -- goading him, out-pacing him, always at least a horse-length out of reach. Her black hair flew out behind her like a banner, the sun beating down hard shadows beneath flying hooves.

The two of them were great horsemen, surely, but it was clear that Anna was the better rider. The girl might as well have been born half horse; Anna could push the beasts to limits that Cecily wouldn't have thought otherwise possible. And for a family whose horse farm had passed down through generations of tenders and trainers, that was no small compliment.

_I need to bring them some water,_ Cecily thought to herself. The past few days had been tortuously hot. She knew that the two of them would know better than to overwork the horses in this heat, but they probably had less qualms about overworking themselves. Anna especially. Alain had much more sense than his sister, that was certain; Cecily imagined that was why Anna looked up so much to her brother. They were practically inseparable, and Cecily was grateful that Alain had such a good head on his shoulders. She didn't doubt that it'd saved her daughter on numerous occasions.

Like now, for instance. She watched as the girl pushed herself up, standing on the saddle rather than sitting. As if that wasn't bad enough, the horse obediently galloping under her, Anna tossed the reins down, too. She must have been guiding the steed by vocal cues, because it still turned about smoothly under her. Alain pointed at her, shouting something, and Anna laughed back, grinning widely. Cecily knew that grin, and it always made her stomach twist a little to see it: reckless, feral.

Unnervingly familiar.

Rather than watch the display of physical prowess and riding capability, Cecily turned away. Alain would take care of her, as he always did. The widow once more set about her chores, trying not to think about the seed of wild darkness that grew in her daughter. All she could do was refuse to nurture it, and hope that it never bloomed.

* * *

**Alain Eris'ei**  
Son, Older Brother, Inherited All the Common Sense

* * *

Alain wasn't surprised at what he was seeing: his sister, throwing caution to the wind as she usually did and standing upon the back of a running mount. Then she let the reins fall as well, and he frowned. How foolish _could_ she be? Damn her, the girl had to get burned twice before she learned not to touch an open flame.

"Anna! Stop that! You're going to break your neck!" She just laughed at him. It was infuriating, of course, but marvelous, too. He slowed his mount to a stop, and watched her. She was showing off, and if he protested too heavily, he knew it'd only make her try harder. Alain was jealous at the ease she had in coaxing the stallion The creature's large ears flicked back and forth, listening to her cluck and hiss as she directed the him with nothing but her voice. She'd crouched low, strong legs absorbing the rolling motion of the gallop. Anna was almost as tall as he was, and at fifteen years old, she was some five years younger.

His sister was leading the steed somewhere, and as Alain looked across the loose-soil of the training ring, he saw her target: one of the hurdles they'd set up last week. Alain groaned, and then grit his teeth together. Telling her _not_ to be an idiot was practically stronger encouragement than cheering her on. Anna whistled between her teeth, and the mount broke into a full-out run. She leaned into the motion, arms brought up in front of her, her elbows tucking in and out as counter-balances. Alain held his breath as his sister charged for the hurdle. Her steed did not shy away from the obstacle, but leaped over it, cleanly clearing the top wooden bar.

For a moment Anna herself was airborne: her boots lifted off the saddle. With nothing else to hold onto, her body followed the steed's motion. It was strangely graceful, in a way, at least until the landing. Her boots slid on the saddle, and though her legs seemed to take the impact well enough, she was off-balance: Anna teetered for only a moment before her mount kept running, her own momentum all but stopped. She fell backwards, arms pinwheeling once or twice.

Then, as if realizing that there was no salvaging the landing, Anna's body stretched and twisted in the air, turning. She landed hard -- there was no way she could avoid that -- but managed to roll on her shoulder. Kicking his mount into a run, Alain moved over to where Anna lay in the dirt, sprawled out on her back.

She was breathing, that much was good. He swung off of his mount before it stopped moving, and went to kneel by her. The girl was sucking air, the wind obviously knocked out of her, a pinched look of pain on her face. Sweat drenched her brow, just as he knew it soaked his own dark hair. "Are you all right?" He asked, looking down at her.

Anna blinked up at him, eyes squinting from the harsh summer sunlight. Rather than answer him in words, her lips twitched, and then her mouth curled into a smile. She started to laugh, hoarse from the fall, but genuine.

Alain cursed, and kicked a bit of dirt at her, though he was careful to avoid her face. "Dumbass," he growled affectionately. She laughed some more, and then spun, tackling him around the knees. Unable to maintain his balance, Alain fell roughly on his side. They wrestling in the dirt, and once again he was reminded how bloody _strong_ she was. Eventually he won, though he had a sneaking suspicion that she let him. They were both coated in the clay-like soil, clods of it worked into their hair, the stuff painting their bodies like wallowing pigs.

He grunted, rolled over, and pushed himself to his feet. Alain reached a hand down to her. She took it, and he hoisted her up. After they tried to brush themselves off for several minutes (mostly ineffectively), he looked up to see her staring at the sky. The sun was still merciless above them, but there were dark clouds very far in the distance. Still far enough that they might not pass their way, but it was hard to tell.

"Going to storm?" Anna asked, dragging her fingers through her hair, pulling out tiny pebbles.

"Maybe. It's been so damned hot lately, it'd break the heat at least."

She shrugged. "Yep. Storm's fine with me."

_Eloquent as always, _Alain thought, rolling his eyes. He clapped his sister on her shoulder. "Let's go secure everything, in case it's a bad one."


	2. The Storm

Chapter Two  
**THE STORM**

_"There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm."_  
Willa Cather

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* * * * *

* * *

**Boris**  
Second-in-Command, Bandit Leader, Marginally Professional

* * *

Boris scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah, this is the place." The rest of the crew chortled quietly. They doused their torches, and their horses snorted impatiently. Most of them stayed with the caravan, where their creepy leader, Crowley, waited. The rest, led by Boris, were to round up the Eris'ei horses for the taking. They were also welcome to whatever they found in the house, so long as they didn't _kill_ any of the owners. Why Crowley cared about any of that, Boris had no idea. But he did, so Boris did too.

"You, you, you, and you," Boris jabbed at some of their stronger men. "Take the house. Remember not to kill anyone, and don't waste your time looting yet. Crowley wants to talk to the owners. The rest of you, let's go to the stables and round up the horses."

While the four raced off for the house, the other three men followed him. He knew they'd be sore that they weren't doing the ransacking, but this was the important job here. Besides, _he_ didn't have much to worry about: Crowley would make sure he got paid well if this job went right. He didn't much bother with rooting through jewelry boxes and the like.

As they approached the stables, thunder boomed over them. It'd been windy all day, and now everything went from dry to soaking in seconds, as rain pelted down on them. The feel of wet leather was anything but pleasant, and Boris gestured for his small band to hurry up. The stables building was actually pretty big: it had what looked like three floors, or at least two levels of loft area. Of course there weren't any horses kept above the ground floor, but there was probably stored hay and tack and such up there. These folks were serious ranchers.

The door wasn't locked, but it was big, and it took two men to open it quickly. Thunder continued to roar around them, but stepping into the stables was an improvement. It was _drier_, at least, and quieter.

"All right, start leading 'em out!" Boris shouted to his three men. They jogged forward, shaking water from their hair as they went. He lit up a couple oil lamps, now that they were inside, and set them near the door. The wind and the rain still make them flicker something awful, though.

"Hey, what the-" Boris heard one of them say in surprise, but his voice was cut short. Their was a sharp whinny, and then a crashing sound as the bandit's body was thrown out of one of the stalls. Lightning flashed, and in that second Boris saw that the side of the man's head had been caved in by a hoof. Blood pooled out of the wound, and he could see the white of the his skull.

"Goddamn beasts," Boris growled under his breath, sprinting to the spot. "I thought they were supposed to be trained!" His other men looked over warily, and went back to their business (with more caution this time). He was halfway to the fallen bandit when he saw someone else dart out of the stall.

In the dim light he couldn't see much but the figure's height -- about as tall, or taller, than any of his men. Another bolt of lightning lit up the stables more thoroughly: it was a _girl._ Now Boris' eyes adjusted, and he could make her out. She was young, with long dark hair, and she looked down at the dead bandit. Boris couldn't _quite_ catch the expression on her face, but she didn't seem all that upset about witnessing the death. His other two men must have seen her too, because before he could tell them to get back to work, they were at his sides.

The girl saw their approach, and turned to them. She didn't shy away. Really, what self-respecting parents raised such a naive daughter, that she didn't at least have the sense to run? Not, of course, that it would have mattered. A sorry lot of bandits they would have to be, if they couldn't chase down a cornered girl.

One of the men had lit his own lantern, and held it up to shine the light on the girl's face. The greater illumination revealed two things, and Boris couldn't decide which was more important. Firstly, that she was actually quite a _pretty_ thing, or rather cute at least; secondly, that she didn't look at all frightened. Pissed as a shaved cat, maybe, but not scared. Scowling, she looked between them, and Boris heard one of the mens' breath hitch, his hand already going to his belt. Fucking unprofessionals, really.

"You should leave," the girl told them, as if it were for their own good.

He laughed, and both the men at his sides tittered along as well. "And leave we shall, Miss. But first, we're going to be taking these fine horses of yours."

"And anything else we like," the man at his right grunted.

"Yeah, that too," Boris agreed, shrugging. "Don't do anything stupid, and you'll get to live."

"Fuck you," the girl spat with such venom that his eyebrows arched.

"Have it your way. Don't need you running around causing a fuss. Go get her," he jerked his head towards where she stood, and the men beside him lunged forward. They were eager as hunting dogs, frothing at the mouth, and bounded towards her with enthusiasm. The girl turned quickly, faster than Boris would have expected, and disappeared up a nearby ladder. He wouldn't have even seen it if she hadn't climbed up it. _Well, she does know her own stable, _Boris thought. It wouldn't make a difference, in the long run.

The men split up: one of them followed directly on her heels, while the other seemed to find another ladder not far away. Boris craned his neck, trying to see what was happening. He saw one of his boys reach the top of the ladder, and then halt for a fraction of a second, before being knocked back. The girl kicked him full in the face, which was bad enough; what was worse, it sent him reeling backwards.

The man's wet boots slipped on the ladder rungs, and he fell, one leg catching at a bad angle. Even though he managed to cling to the ladder, the momentum carried it to the ground. It fell over, and he landed with a sickening crunch. The shriek of pain that rose from the spot let Boris know that the man was alive -- but he'd had to have broken something in that fall.

"Bitch! Fucking bitch! My leg! Oh gods, oh gods, _the bone is sticking out!_" Boris grimaced. Well, that could wait. This girl was going to be more of a problem than he'd anticipated. Luckily, he saw that his other man had made it to the second level. Boris made his way over to the ladder that was still standing, and found that it had been nailed to the wall: he quickly began to climb up it.

Boris reached the landing of the second story in time to see his last man bearing down on the girl. The bandit hadn't drawn his weapon; probably still too intent on keeping her unharmed as part of his reward-screw later. The girl had picked up a pitchfork. And even if she couldn't be a day older than seventeen, her stance was aggressive, and Boris had no doubt that she'd use the tool.

"You fucking dumbshit, Kyle, use your fucking sword! She's gonna-"

Whatever plans Kyle had had to wrestle the pitchfork from her, they were cut violently short. The bandit jerked towards her, obviously expecting her to feint back again, but she let out a hellish scream and drove forward instead. Two of the four main prongs caught him square in the throat, and he gurgled wetly in surprise. Rather than trying to dislodge the weapon from him, the girl spun, throwing all her weight into it. Both the bandit and the pitchfork careened off the side of the loft, and landed with a thud.

"Son of a bitch," Boris spat, and drew his own sword. Every flash of lightning caught on the steel, and he saw the first sign of wariness creep onto the girl's features. "Look," he said, pointing the blade towards her, advancing slowly. For every step he took, she took one back, but eventually she'd run out of room. Some two dozen feet separated them. "You can knock it off and give up, or you can die. Less men means more payment for the rest of us, but I'm not about to let you mess up this job. You hear me?"

"You think you're the first bandits to attack us?" The girl asked, and he felt his anger build when he realized she _still_ didn't sound frightened. Maybe she was really brave, but she was _definitely_ really stupid. "I was seven when I helped kill my first horse thief."

"How quaint," Boris sneered. "But don't make the mistake of thinking that we're just your run of the mill-" He was in mid-sentence when the girl turned on her heel, breaking into a sprint; she didn't wait for the monologue, didn't care. "Hey!" He ran after her, and saw her scamper up another ladder to the topmost loft. By the time he reached the ladder, she was well up and over. Boris gave it an experimental tug -- it was also nailed down. Good.

Cautiously, he began to climb. He had to go a bit slower because he didn't want to sheath his weapon again. Carefully, he peeked over the top: he didn't see her nearby, and quickly hauled himself up. He tried listening for her, but with the thunder rolling overhead, it was impossible to pinpoint sounds. Boris saw something move out of the corner of his eye and spun; he saw the girl standing not far away. She was holding something in her hand, but it was too dark to be able to tell what, especially with the lamps left downstairs.

"Look, I'm done playing hide and seek, so I suggest you knock this shit off. There are at least a dozen more of us, so if you think you're some kind of hard motherfucker for taking down three guys, trust me, you aren't gonna get much further than that. And do you _really_ wanna deal with some twelve-odd pissed off men?"

The girl did stop at that, and he thought he was getting through to her. "Why would you need that many men to steal horses?" She asked, and didn't back away when he took a step closer, and then another.

"Our boss is someone whose bad side you don't want to be on. I guess you could say we're more mercenaries than bandits, as far as that goes. He _hates_ complications. So he brought the lot of us, to make sure everything goes nice and smooth." Boris stepped forward again, and still the girl didn't move. He had he sword drawn and ready, just in case, but if she was being _sensible_ then he might not have to run her through.

"What's your boss's name?"

"I'm not telling you that. But if you quit playing warrior-woman and come quietly, maybe you can ask him yourself." Another step. The girl shifted her weight, and Boris halted his advance.

"Not likely," she said quietly, and then moved abruptly. It seemed like a strange motion, didn't make sense in the dark, until he felt something tighten around his ankle. His first instinct was that it was a snake -- he'd stepped on one and had to pry its fangs out of his boot, once. It didn't take him long to realize what it actually was, especially not when he was suddenly tugged from his feet. His back slammed to the wooden floorboards, and he was dragged by his right leg. Boris managed to hold on to his sword, and as he fought to right himself he also struck wildly at the rope.

But this was nothing compared to what came next. Without pause, the girl took a running leap off of the third-story loft, holding tight to the other end of the rope. It must have been attached to some sort of pulley (she had to have fastened that lasso quickly on his end), because as she swung away, his body shot upwards. The whole world went upside down and another streak of lightning blinded him.

His stomach heaved and he puked up the half-chewed lunch he'd gulped down earlier, splattering himself more than anything. Boris was still gripping the sword hilt, but his limbs were momentarily out of his control. Upside down he watched as the girl let go of the rope, and was flung off into a pile of hay to break her fall. As soon as her weight was gone, no longer counterbalancing his, his momentum reversed. Instead of shooting upwards, he began plummeting to the ground.

_Headfirst, _Boris thought miserably. _Break my sodding neck at least-_

And just as the ground came up to meet him, there was a loud clank of metal hitting metal, and his body stopped suddenly. The rope went so tight around his ankle that he thought he'd have a bruise through his boot, and fiery agony burned in his knee and hip joints. His leg didn't break, at least, but the rough stop caused his sword to fly from his hand. He swung, helpless, not sure if he should be grateful for the catch at the end of the rope or not.

The girl rolled out of straw, brushing it off of her as she walked towards him. She passed by the bandit whose leg she'd broken earlier. He was unconscious, and the girl tugged his leather tunic off over his head, sliding it over herself. The fit wasn't too far off, and she also picked up his sword. Without so much as a moment's hesitation, she slit the man's throat.

"Gods girl, you're making a mistake!" Boris shouted at her. Damn, wouldn't this just be an undignified way to die? Some kind of morbid pendulum, covered in his own vomit, throat cut like nothing more than pitiful livestock-

She approached him, and he gulped despite himself. She looked a lot taller now, with his head swinging around on level with her knees. With one hand she grabbed his hair, pulling it hard. The expression on her face was completely unimpressed, and she didn't bother to meet his eyes when she rose the blade to his throat.

"Wait!" Boris started to shout, but the word was lost in the heat of his own blood running down over his face. The last thing he saw -- before the hot liquid coated his eyes and he lost all hold on reality, -- was her back as she sprinted away, racing out into the storm.


	3. Deal with a Devil

Chapter Three  
**DEAL WITH A DEVIL**

_"He was deep like a graveyard,  
She was ripe like a peach.  
And how could he have known that  
She was only fifteen?"_  
Rilo Kiley

* * *

* * * * *

* * *

**Martin Crowley**  
Ring Leader, Deal-Maker, In Love With Your Carnage

* * *

"Something's wrong," Martin Crowley hissed under his breath. It was taking the group at the stables far too long to start leading the horses out, even accounting for the storm sitting on top of them. He hadn't wanted to get out of the caravan, with all that rain, but it seemed there wasn't much choice. He lifted a flap of canvas, and dropped to the ground. Mud sucked at his boots, already thick enough that he knew transporting the horses was going to be no easy task.

"I want two men with me -- the rest of you stay here and make sure we don't get routed in this mud!" When he had two of his mercenaries by his side, Martin turned and started off for the stable. He wasn't wearing armor, but he wasn't wearing his robes, either: just a tunic and pair of cloth pants. By the time he reached the large stable, he was soaked through to his skin.

The stable doors were wide open, which in itself was unsettling. He could hear the frantic whinnying of nervous horses inside, and approached cautiously. There was still a lantern burning, hung near the doorway, and he picked it up. Within a few steps the circle of illumination passed over one of the bandits. Before he had to look closer, lightning offered up a complete picture of the grisly scene.

Three men lay on the ground, their blood making dark pools on the dirt floor. One of them had what looked like a pitchfork protruding from his neck, where two iron prongs had punctured and ruptured the flesh like a dinner utensil through raw steak. Most interestingly, however, was his mercenary Captain. The man was swinging by a rope that hung from the rafters, and at first Martin thought that he'd somehow hanged himself.

Walking closer, he shone the lantern's light on the slowly revolved body. No, he wasn't strung up my his neck, but his foot. His throat, however, _had_ been sliced open. Boris' face was paler than a wintry moon, his lips tinged blue. Undoubtedly his heart had pumped out all of his blood within moments, and gravity would only have helped. Whoever had done this had been efficient, that much was sure.

"Shit!" One of the men behind him murmured, and the other agreed. They started nervously, shifting back and forth. "Shit, I thought these people were just ranchers!"

"They are. Follow me. And if you piss your pants, you're walking back to camp tonight."

Martin went back out into the rain, and set off for the ranch house. He took the lantern with him, and the glass panes kept out most of the water, but it was still incredibly hard to see. Eventually he made his way there, and the door was already open. Inside, more lanterns and candles had been lit, and he could hear a struggle taking place.

Carefully stepping over another dead body, Martin approached the parlor room, where the fight seemed to be taking place. Another dead man was slumped over a chair, and he saw one more bleeding to death in a corner. Which left one of his mercenaries unaccounted for...

"Anna, stop!" A crash sounded as two bodies were driven into -- and through -- a cabinet housing ceramics and dishware. Martin saw the widow, Cecily Eris'ei, huddled against one wall. Her son, Alain Eris'ei, stood protectively before her, shouting at the dueling figures. "Stop!"

Just when it seemed that the young man might leave his mother's side to join his sister, one of the men that had come with Martin edged around to that side of the room. He held the boy, Alain, at bay with one quick gesture towards Cecily. Alain, being unarmed, did the reasonable thing, and stayed flush to the wall.

A wrestling match broke out on the floor, and Martin watched as Anna Eris'ei -- the young daughter of the family -- squared off against one of his better men. Both of them were bleeding, but she much more so. A deep cut above her right eye exposed her skull, half-blinding her with her own blood, but her lips were pulled back into a vicious snarl as she kept on fighting. Martin felt himself go very still as he watched.

He paused only once, to let his eyes flick up to the cowering family and confirm what he already knew. Both mother and son were dry, save for the errant smudge of blood here or there. The girl, on the other hand, was wearing a leather jerkin that was suspiciously _identical_ to the ones most of his men wore. The swords in her hands were standard-issue as well; Martin felt a detached admiration to see that she had been fighting with both.

Most importantly, her long, dark hair was plastered to her face and her neck, drenched not just in rainwater but blood and sweat, too. She'd been the one in the stables, and the only one, from the look of things.

As valiant and deadly as this little creature might be, she was losing. Still, that put her kill count at what, seven? Martin didn't think for a second that those had been fair one-on-one fights, but all the same, seven bodies was nothing to sniff at. Especially not from a dead rancher's daughter.

There came a muffled cry as the bandit she was fighting got the upper hand. He'd pinned her with her stomach pressing against the ground, and wasted no time to wrenching one of her arms up behind her back. With an unpleasant _snap!_ he broke her arm, pushing it upwards. The girl screamed into the floorboards, and her hand involuntarily lost it's grip on the sword's hilt.

The man atop her made the mistake of taking the sound as a sign of victory, and relaxed a hair or two. The shriek of pain contorted into a howl of rage, and the girl twisted under him like a serpent, swinging the other sword-arm in a wild arc. Trying to stay seated and dodge the blow at the same time, the bandit shifted his weight, and she rolled over on him. Martin was surprised at her agility for one, but even moreso her strength: that man had an easy fifty pounds on her.

The unlucky mercenary struck out with his sword, the blade finding purchase on her shoulder, just inches from her throat. It bit deep, and she cried out again -- but brought her own sword down as she did. With all the power left in her usable arm, she drove the blade through the man's sternum. His heart stopped instantly, and well, so did Martin's, but for other reasons.

_Eight,_ Martin thought, feeling a dull heat curling in his belly. The girl staggered to her feet, while the other man beside Martin pulled his sword. He could see the blade quivering in the unsteady hand.

"Gods, Anna! Stop! Just put the damned sword down!" But she did not. Perhaps she could not, had forgotten how in whatever bloodlust overcame her. Martin stood his ground as the girl took a step towards him. She stumbled, only barely catching herself and staying on her feet. Her right arm was limp at her side, and she was greatly favoring one leg. Blood began to drip from her, pouring from the fresh wound at her neck and down her back and chest.

Another slow step. The girl was still out of striking distance, and Martin could feel the tension of the man beside him, waiting for orders.

"What are you waiting for?" Anna Eris'ei spat, the words garbled though what Martin recognized as a broken jaw. If she hadn't completely won him over before, she did then, and he exhaled in a great huff of greedy desire.

Martin made a slight gesture to the man beside him without bothering to look; he didn't take his eyes off of the girl. Both remaining bandits sprung forward, and though she swung at them, she was quickly fading. They overtook her with only a nick or two to show for it, and at last the blade fell from her fist. With one bandit to either side they forced her to her knees, and she still struggled weakly against them. A sword was brought to her throat, and Martin hissed, broken from his trance.

"Don't kill her, you idiot! Or I'll skin you alive, in front of _mirror,_ so you can _watch._" The man with the sword nodded after a moment of confusion, and brought the hilt down hard across the girl's face instead. Her eyes rolled white in her skull, and her body went lax in their grip.

He quickly moved forward, and checked her pulse. It was light, and far too quick -- he'd need to tend to her, or she'd be dead within minutes. Martin brushed his thumb over her cheek, the one that hadn't been coated in blood.

"What... what do you want?" The brother finally spoke. Martin stood, and faced the remaining two members of the family. From the bright look in the young man's eyes, he could tell that he was the clever sort. Clever enough to protect his mother and not start a fight with so many horse-thieves, at least. Perhaps he was also a bit of a coward as well. Martin wouldn't blame him: reckless courage was hardly a trait of the wise.

"Well, we came for your horses, as I'm sure you can imagine-"

"Take them!" Alain Eris'ei cut him off. "Please, take whatever you want, just don't hurt our family!"

"About that..." Martin scratched the side of his neck. "I'm quite fair, Alain, as much as any bandit or mercenary can be." The son flinched, obviously unhappy to hear his name drop from the lips of a bandit. "I'll make you a deal."

The son scowled. "Under what terms?" His mother stared wide-eyed, and Martin figured that she must have gone catatonic at the sight of so much violence.

"There's a good man." Martin smiled. "We'll leave here tonight, and you won't hear from us again. You can keep all your knick-knacks and your horses." Both the remaining bandits' heads spun at that, staring at him gape-jawed. Martin was unaffected.

"...in return for what?" Alain asked carefully.

Martin leaned to the side, to give the young man a good view of his unconscious, dying sister. "Her."

"What?!" Alain's lips pulled back over his teeth, and he stepped forward. One of the mercenaries that'd been holding the girl quickly closed in between them, forcing Alain back at sword-point. "What do you want with her!"

Martin smiled, wet his lips with his tongue, and then held his hands out, palms up. "Don't be an unreasonable man, Alain. I'm not going to kill her, and neither do I plan on passing her around the camp as a cheap reward. You can still protect what's left of your family, and its livelihood."

"And if I refuse?" But there was no real spine in it: Martin could already hear his victory in Alain Eris'ei's weak stab at valor. He was just too logical _not_ to take the offer.

"If you refuse? Well, I'm a fair man, but I've also got a vindictive streak, you could say. There are at least another half-dozen men outside. I'll invite them to take whatever they want -- including your mother and sister, while you watch -- and then burn your house to the ground with you inside of it. Oh, and we'll steal your horses, too."

The young man's eyes smoldered with barely contained fury, but he held himself in check. If Alain could kill him, he would; but he was unarmed and outnumbered. That, and he had his mother to worry about.

"You... you won't hurt her, will you?"

Martin smirked. "Not in the conventional ways, if that's what you're thinking."

Alain's face darkened, but in defeat rather than defiance. Finally, he cast his eyes away. "Fine. Go."

"I knew you'd make the right decision." Martin half-turned to the two men in his employ. "Let's leave them to the business of cleaning up, shall we?"

"B-but, Crowley, are we really not going to get _anything_-" One of them began to complain, and Martin shot him a look so cold that his mouth instantly snapped shut. "Right, Boss." They both picked up the girl, and began to walk out.

"No!" The mother screeched awfully, this apparently breaking her stupor. "No! Don't! My girl! You can't take my little girl!"

"Mother, please-" Alain had to hold her back, wrapping his arms around her in a bear hug. "Please, it's for the best, _please_-"

Martin, having no interest in listening to the mother's pleas or the brother's guilty reassurances, left. Once back in the caravan, his hands flew into motion, bandaging the worst of the girl's wounds. That she clung to life at all was a wonder, and his fingers trembled lightly: he wasn't quite sure he'd ever been so determined to see anything _not die._ He did the best he could, but she was going to need long-term care.

With a few short orders, the caravan set off as quickly as they were able to, given the state of the roads. Overhead, the storm had passed: the rain fell softly now, and he listened to it as he tended to his prize.


End file.
